I haven't been writing.

Not just here. But at all. Not journals, not letters, not emails, not postcards, not scathing diatribes on scraps of office stationary, not even badly constructed beginnings of novels or names for my non-existent band. Not anything.

I am bereft of words.

Life is just not writeable somehow. Which is ironic, considering my career.

But it isn't. It's too much. And not enough. And doesn't fit. And promises and takes and starves and grows.

See? Even I know how retarded I sound. It just isn't a literal kind of thing. It's like the epicness of opera but the quietude of an indy Cannes flick. It's everything and nothing and a sara-centred world devoid of a central character.

Perhaps I should take up dance. Maybe then it would all make sense.